


Improbable Meetings

by MissCatherineEarnshaw



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissCatherineEarnshaw/pseuds/MissCatherineEarnshaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> Sherlock knew something was off with the two men the moment he saw them at St James Park.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Four times Aziraphale or Crowley came accross Baker Street Friends, and the one time they actually visited them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I think there'll be never be enough Sherlock/Good Omens crossover, so yeah, here is mine.  
> If you want to know the timeline, basically this is supposed to take place after the near-apocalypse in GO universe and during season one for Sherlock-at least for chapter one, the next two take place in season two I think, and I'm not quite sure for the last.  
> Enjoy ! And don't forget kudos and comments are love.

* * *

 

Sherlock knew something was off with the two men the moment he saw them at St James Park.

He had been sent there by Mycroft- well, not exactly, since it would imply his older brother could dispose of him- but some information he had given him had lead him there anyway. He was supposed to meet an American agent who could provide him insight on a particular case. He had always known in an abstract sort of way that agents liked to meet there- he was Mycroft's brother, for God's sake- but he had never quite understood why. He got the whole concept of neutral location but why a park, in one of the dampest area of all Europe ? What were the appeal of mud and noisy ducks ? No wonder almost everyone going to this place was either under eighteen or over sixty., thus making agent’s presence all the more noticeable. They liked to gather here anyway, and Sherlock had been waiting for his own for almost an hour now, on a deserted bench next to the garbage bin. Observing the rest of them in activity was by far the most interesting occupation. They all thought they were so discrete, with their dark outfit and grim faces, always going by pair and talking to each other in such a way you couldn't possibly read on their lips.

But the couple of agents sat on the grass next to his bench was an other sort entirely. First, only one of them was correctly dressed- sober and dark outfit with sunglasses-, leaving the other with a bright tartan pullover which looked ridiculously out of place. But it wasn't the most interesting thing-maybe the weird outfit fitted the cover-role as a bookseller or a librarian tartan-man seemed to be going with. The way they behaved was more intriguing by fair. They didn't keep what seemed to be considered the respectable distance between two agents- probably the one who allowed you to run or use a fire weapon in case of extreme necessity. Their knees were only inches apart and whenever one of them leaned forward, he brushed the other's arm. Their jovial attitude were also unprecedented- considering MI6 standard anyway, and Sherlock was absolutely sure the blond-smiling one was British. The one with the sunglasses didn't really smile, true, but he smirked from time to time, and even chuckled once. Plus the fact that they seemed overly enthusiastic over the prospect of feeding ducks, having brought not one but two breads to throw crumbs at them.

Sure, there was always the possibility Sherlock was mistaken and they were merely jolly friends spending a quiet afternoon at St James. But there were too many data fitting this theory- beside agents, only retired or unemployed people could meet at four p.m in parks in early December and that didn't match _at all._ He was also fairly sure that regular strollers couldn’tpossibly communicate in such a way that he, Sherlock Holmes, would be unable to eavesdrop. And that they wouldn't know the subtle way to glance regularly across the park to see if they weren't observed like these two did.

So, yes, he was intrigued by the pair, and almost ready to focus his full attention on them, when his American contact appeared out of nowhere and sat next to him. _Maybe I'll just ask Mycroft later_ he pondered for himself, his curiosity getting the better of him, as he turned ever so subtly to greet the agent. For now, he had to concentrate on a more pressing matter.


	2. Molly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even if it is not precised in the canon - we don't get much of un-supernatural related human's point of view when directly confronted to Aziraphale and Crowley, I like the idea that one can sense that something is special - un-earthly I would say- about them, without quite figuring out why - a bit like when confronted to the four horsemen. Which explains some parts of this chapter and of the next too.  
> This chapter takes place in season two, before the last episode - I feel like I have to point that for Molly's character development.  
> As usual, enjoy your reading !

* * *

 

Truth be told, Molly wasn't sure why she was in the dusty bookstore in the first place. It had been a while since her last visit in Soho, and she was a bit disorientated to be quite honest-unlike Sherlock, she didn't claim to know London like the back of her hand. When she stumbled on a corner upon that bookshop, her fist instinct was to turn back and ask for directions the first bystander, because she was obviously lost. But for some reason, she didn't move and stayed stuck in front of it, even going as far as to go in.

She didn't know exactly what she had found so appealing about it-after all, most of the curtains were drawn, and the dust on the windows made it difficult to see anything inside anyway, besides the endless shelves cluttered with books. The sign _open_ was dangling dangerously, almost as if it didn't want to be there. But despite all of this, the place attracted her like a magnet and that's why she had pushed the door and was currently standing in front a blond-haired man, blinking owlishly at her behind his spectacles. He seemed to have just come out of the back room, if the spider-web in his hair was anything to go by.

“I'm sorry, are you closed ?” she asked in a small voice, startled by the sudden appearance.

“Well...not exactly, no.” the bookseller answered, sounding almost regretful. “I'm sorry I wasn't there to greet you, I was busy in the back room and I didn't hear you coming in.”

“ Oh, that's fine.”Molly chuckled, slightly embarrassed. There was something in this man that made her want to please him. Maybe it was the kindness in his eyes, or the fact that his curly blond hair almost formed a halo upon his head. An aura of goodness seemed to surround him and Molly was inexplicably drawn to it, just like she had been drawn by the bookshop itself.

“ Are you alright ?” the librarian suddenly asked her in a concerned voice, which had her blushing when she realized she had been staring at him for the past minute.

“ Yes quite-Sorry, I was just thinking your door may need a bell.” She felt the need to elaborate in front of his perplexed face. “ So that you could hear people when they come in.”

“You're absolutely right.” the blond exclaimed suddenly, hitting the dusty **counter** at bit louder than necessary. “It's a very good idea, I should totally do that if I wanted more customers.”

He was smiling as he spoke-almost dazzlingly Molly thought absentmindedly-, but she was sure she wasn't imagining the wishful sigh in his voice.

“Are you looking for something in particular ?” he asked her with a slight tilt of the head.

“Well, not exactly, no.” she managed to stutter. It was embarrassing how awkward she felt near theman. Of course he was handsome, but he shouldn't have been that intimidating. He was currently frowning-maybe thinking of heading back to a place without idiotic customer, which pushed her to add precipitately “Wait, now that I'm thinking about it, I would quite like some Jane Austen. If you have one of course.”

She didn't know why she had said that-she had read all Jane Austen and she had her own collection at home, thank you very much-except the fact that the presence of this man inspired in her the need to read love stories. Good one, not some cheap silly romance. The man assured her with a smile that should be no problem at all, and was gone out of the room in the next blink.

Once he was out of her sight, she tried to recover her thoughts. So, she was attracted by this man, that was for sure. Maybe she should ask him out-maybe it was a good idea. After all he didn't seem at all to be the sociopath type, which had been Molly's main problem with men recently. Sure he was a bit older than her-he looked like he was in his forties-, but that could be good to. An elderly, reassuring figure on whom she could rely. Actually, the only thing that bothered her was the needling feeling that he might be not-so-straight. Ever since the Jim incident, she was much more careful to this sort of thing, becoming an expert to notice manicured nails or slightly too brushed hair- without falling into stereotypes, of course.

She was deep in her thoughts when the telephone rang. She was unsure of what to do, since the bookseller hadn't come out of the back room yet- was she supposed to take the phone and warn him or let it ring ? The voice mail started before she could make up her mind, taking her aback.

“Aziraphale, why won't you drop your books for a second and pick your damn phone ? I'm waiting for you by the ducks, angel.”

Well, she guessed this settled the problem of the man's sexuality.

The bookseller chose this moment to come out of the back room.

" I've missed the phone, haven't I ?" he asked her as he handed her a beautiful, albeit dusty leather-bound copy of _Sense and Sensibility_. « Has the person left a message ? »

“Yeah, your boyf...your friend said said something about ducks.” Molly explained nervously, catching herself at the last minute before the word _boyfriend_ escaped her mouth.

“Damn, I've completely forgotten Crawley.” the blond man frowned, taking back her copy. He must be cursing me at St James, I was supposed to meet him there an hour ago.”

“I suppose I should be going then?” Molly answered with a small smile, holding her hand so that she could have her book back. “How much will it cost ?”

The man-well Aziraphale, if it was indeed his name- stared at her with bewildered eyes, as if he had had no idea what she was talking about about, before he exclaimed loudly “Yes, the book, you're absolutely right. I had almost forgotten about it. It will be twenty quid.”

It was a bit expensive, for a book she already had, and it sounded awfully like the seller had just made up the price, but he seemed to be in a hurry and the copy was really beautiful, so Molly nodded and went behind the till. She could have sworn he looked disappointed for a second.

“So, this Crowley, is he some friend of yours ?” Molly asked, a bit boldly, as she put the money on the counter.

“Sort of.” Aziraphale replied with a soft smile, looking awfully like John when he was describing Sherlock's antics. “Our relationship is a tad more complicated. He's not someone I like to make waiting anyway. But he would forgive me if he knew it was a for a customer.” he added, flashing a smile in her direction.

Molly wasn't all that surprised by this last sentence- one only had to look at the state of the bookshop- so she nodded emphatically as he cashed her bill and put the book, somehow reluctantly in a plastic bag.

“So, I guess I'll be seeing you around soon ? You can come here anytime, it's a pleasure to deal with you.” he declared suddenly, as he came out of behind the till. She agreed with a smile, wondering if she should tell him it wasn't necessary to carry the bag for her, nor to walk her to the door.

“I'm really sorry, but as you can guess, I'm a bit late, so I have to close behind you.” he exclained with a nervous smile, nearly pushing her towards the exit. She was out before she had the time to think about it. Before she left, she shot one last look at the bookshop- the sign was now turned to _closed_ and every curtains were drawn. It almost looked as if the place had been deserted for ages and she had imagined the whole thing.

It was only two blocks later she realized her hands were empty save for her handbag- the bookseller had kept the plastic one, and the book within it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got to jump on every possible occasion to mention Sense and Sensibility I'm afraid.


	3. Irene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got to confess this is my favorite chapter so far.   
> I'll be in Italy for the next couple of days so I won't be able to update, but I promise you you won't have to wait too long.

* * *

 

Irene was intrigued by the man the moment she was him at the bar. First, he was dressed all in black, which, Irene was aware, didn't actually suit that many people- on some men, it just looked as if they were depressed, gloomy, trying too hard to be classy, or ready to attend a funeral. But this man looked as if he were _born_ into it- as if trying to make him wear anything else would have been a mistake. Same could be said of his sunglasses- seriously who even wore sunglasses inside a bar in real life -they would have been looked moronic on anyone else, given the context, but only magnified him. Plus, he had hell of cheekbones. Not that Irene was into this sort of thing or anything..

So she sat next to him and ordered the bartender two glasses of bourbon. Most women considered buying a man a drink instead of letting him invite you was a bad move, but as far as Irene was concerned, giving the man the upper hand right away only resulted in him feeling as if he already owned you, before the conversation had ever begun.

Sunglasses-man tilted his head to look at her, a playful smirk on his lips.

“To whom do I owe the pleasure ?”

“Irene.” She could have given a pseudonym- she should have, actually- but somehow she wasn't in the mood tonight- what was a christian name, anyway ? The other, more embarrassing reason, was the weird feeling that she would have been unable to lie to him, even if she had wanted to.

“Well, thank you Irene.” he answered cheerfully as he clasped his hand on the cool drink the bartender had brought. She only smiled, drinking her own liquor in one slow gulp.

“Hey, bartender, two other please.” the man hailed, putting a torn note on the damp counter after he had emptied his own drink.

They spent the next hour like this, buying each other round as soon as their drink were over. Irene noticed rather smugly that she hold her liquor better than him. After half an hour, his cheeks were flushed, his hair mussed, and his grin more permanent, whereas she still controlled herself perfectly. She wasn't so proud of the way she was conducting her seduction process. They weren't even flirting-actually, they were barely talking at all, save for the offhand comments about the place and usual niceties. She supposed she could have foreseen it, what with the time it took him to tell her _his_ name- fifteen minutes, no less. She tried her very best though- flashing him dazzling smiles, titling her head the most adorable way, even going as far as pouting, which she hated with all her heart. She was now sat so close to him that their knees brushed. It took most people far less to give in.

It was irritating and Irene was beginning to get frustrated. But there were something about his Crowley that irresistibly pulled her, a mix of attraction and repulsion. He sometimes made her uncomfortable- like when his voice dropped to a whisper and sounded almost like a hissing, or when his sunglasses fell on his nose for one second and she could have sworn she had seen a glimpse of yellow. He had this ability to make her skin crawl like no one else before him- and she had been intimately acquainted with Moriarty, for fuck's sake. But next to that there was something almost magnetic about him- his undeniable confidence and cockiness, even as he was dampened by alcohol or the deep resonance of his laugh. _Th_ _is_ kept her going.

After the tenth drink or so, Crowley paused in order to stare at her.

“I'm sure you're wondering why I'm wasting your time.” he told her with a smirk.

“I wouldn't put it as bluntly, but, well...” Irene answered, pursing her lips a little.

“Don't lie. I can _feel_ your irritation. It's a bit like a pleasant humming to me.”

This was the sentence that pushed Irene out of her mind. She'd been patient before because, well, she was attracted by the man for once, and also because she had had the feeling she could withdraw some interesting information from him. But this crappy speech on empathy or whatever was a bit too much to handle.

“You know what ?” she spat to him. “You make me thing of some man I knew. He was just like you, all mystery and cheekbones, wearing a dramatically swirling black coat like you're wearing your sunglasses. Desperately trying to appear aloof and cold whereas in the end he was as soft in the inside, as anyone else. It was a bit pathetic.”

She bit her lips at the end of her speech, regretting her unwise words. Sure, this sweaty bar in Florida was a long way from London, but the consulting detective had now quite a reputation, even across the Atlantic, and the last thing she needed was her name to be linked back to his, not after the incident in Karachi. But her description provoked no reaction. Crowley merely asked her “And what did you do to this man ?”

“I took his coat.” Irene shrugged. “Well- he had to land it to me because I was naked.”

“You took his coat wearing nothing under it ?” Crowley repeated with a smirk. “So in a way, you wanted to emasculate him.”

“I hadn't considered it like that, but yeah, maybe I did.” Irene answered, which had the man laughing.

“You're more interesting than I originally thought.” He eventually told her. “M' sorry I'm not better company tonight.”

“What's your excuse then ?” Irene asked him, sipping what was left of her drink. Crowley's smirk faltered.

“I'm not even sure exactly. There's just this someone I miss I guess.” he declared quietly, which earned him a kick and a disapproving glare from Irene.

“What was that for ?”

She rolled her eyes.

“I'm afraid you're becoming _cliché._ Is that it, your sweetheart is gone and you're all sad ?”

“I certainly wouldn't dare to call Aziraphale like that. He would kill me in my sleep.” Crowley frowned. This lead Irene to two conclusion- a) the man was probably gay, which meant her failure was less humiliating than she originally thought and b) his likely-boyfriend must have had very cruel newwage parents. Before she had time to answer anything, the bar door suddenly opened to reveal a forty-ish man with curly-blond hair and a tartan shirt. Crowley's face instantly lightened.

“Speak of the devil...”

The man noticed them  immediately, and walked to their spot  decidedly. By the time he arrived there, Crowely's stance was - he was no longer slumped on the  counter and grinning stupidly, but sitting straight on his tool with a blank face, only betrayed by the light flush on his cheeks. The transformation was so sudden Irene wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't been there to witness it.

“You do realize this is not London, right ?” Crowley asked him confidently as soon as he was standing next to them. This must be the man he had been moping over.

“I'm quite aware of it, dear.” the blond- Azirapahe according to all evidence- answered, putting a hand on Crowley's shoulder as he took a quick look at him. He didn't seem at all fooled by his cool demeanor.

“So what are you doing so far from home, then ?”The one with the sunglasses asked with a cocky grin.

“No idea.” Aziraphale answered absentmindedly. “I was a bit bored in England actually, and so I thought that maybe..”

“You should come all the way to see me ? You missed me, admit it” Crowley said it in so confident a tone that Irene was driven by the urge to remind him what he had told her not five minutes ago, but the blond didn't leave her the time.

“As if I would confess that to you.” he huffed, carefully rearranging Crowely's sunglasses so that they wouldn't fall from his nose. Irene was feeling more and more as an uncomfortable third wheel, which she wasn't all to happy with. Maybe it was the right moment to introduce herself.

“I'm Irene, by the way.” she told the blond as she extended her hand to him. From the way he looked at her with blinking eyes, she could tell he hadn't noticed her at all.

“I'm sorry, how rude of me;” he answered as he shook her hand. “My name is Aziraphale.”

His smile seemed genuine, but Irene couldn't help but notice his gaze on her didn't linger more than necessary- not interested, then. But since the man looked as gay as a maypole, she wasn't all that ashamed. Crowley on the other hand was frowning extra hard at her, possibly because she had diverted Aziraphale's attention from him.

“Did you realize the last time we've seen each other was not six months ago ?” he asked the blond suddenly, shifting so that he could lean toward him.

“I know.” Aziraphale replied quietly, his hand still on Crowley's shoulder.

“We used to spend decades without seeing each other, do you remember ?”

Irene rose her eyebrows at that- had Sunglasses-man such a taste for over-dramatizing, or had the two known each other since kindergarten ?- and Aziraphale frowned, mumbling in Crowley's ear something along “We've got company dear.”

“Don't worry about her, I think I've enough compromising information to blackmail her if needed.”

He was bluffing of course-even if he had understood who she was talking about earlier, that wasn't nearly enough to seriously threaten her-, but it chilled her anyway.

“Do not even _consider_ this.” she gritted between her teeth.

“No one is going to do anything.” Aziraphale assured her,. “Are you, Crowley ?”

“Of course not.” he answered with a weak smile, visibly intimated by the sheer power of Aziraphale's glare. This habit these two had to communicate without speaking bothered Irene to no end, if only because it wasn't the first time she witnessed it.

“We were going to leave anyway.” Aziraphale added. “I think Crowley has had enough drink for the evenings.” He was sliding an arm under the other man's armpit as he spoke so that he could lift him. At Irene's surprise-and probably at Aziraphale's-he didn't protest, instead leaning his head on the shoulder of the blond.

“You're right, as usual.” he mumbled, the sound of his voice muffled by his friend's shirt.

“I apologize for our unpleasant company.” A very flustered Aziraphale apologized to her, putting a twenty dollar note on the counter, probably to pay for Crowley's drinks. She merely nodded, noticing with a mild interest that the color on his cheeks almost matched his red tartan. He told her he hoped she could have a good evening nevertheless and even Crowley grumbled something akin to a goodbye, so she wished them a good night. She watched them ago away with narrowed eyes, the drunk one leaning over the blond, as she sipped the remainder of Crowley's drink, wondering why she was able to recognize the irony of the situation, but unable to appreciate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my obsession on Aziraphale's tartan.


	4. Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God knows why, but I love the idea of angels and demons working somehow with the british government. And I love Mycroft too, so, well.
> 
> Sorry for the delay, I've been quite busy these holidays ;)  
> Enjoy your reading !

* * *

 

It was the first time Mycroft saw these two agents together. They always come separately, often at close interval to deliver contradictory advices. Nobody seemed to know who sent them exactly and why they were here. The man who occupied his position before him had left very blurry information about them-a further proof of his inefficiency, according to Mycroft. At the beginning he had tried hard to learn more-he liked to know who he was getting information from- but he he had abandoned pretty quickly. They didn't come here very often anyway, and everyone at Downing Street seemed to acknowledge their presence as normal, which meant it was necessary somehow. That one time he had broached the topic with the prime minister, the man had leant his head condescendingly and said with an irritating smile “I'm afraid this enigma is even beyond your intelligence Mycroft . But believe me, it's good to have them here. Just listen to anything they have to say, don't bother with their source or why they're handing this information to you.” Mycroft had nodded and stopped asking questions.

He had been able to dig out a few things anyway. First, the weird position these two occupied had been existing for a long time and seemed to be hereditary of sort. The seldom paper documenting their existence were at least four hundred years old and yet the description still fit the two perfectly. But Mycroft was used to British's decorum and odd tradition- if it was expected that yeomen searched the grounds of the parliament with torches to find explosives every State Opening, then why couldn't some officials be forced to wear tartan or sunglasses to occupy their position ? Second, the sort of rivalry that seemed to exist between the two. They liked to tease him to discover if the other had been there before and were always flustered when they found out. And if they somehow discovered they had the same opinion on one matter, they were always at loss, as if it made their whole existence meaningless.

However, what he had figured out in the previous years about these two didn't match at all the way they were acting today- casually sat next to each other behind his office. Especially when the blond one, who was known as Mr. Fell explained the reason of their visit.

“What do you mean by _you want to quit_?” Mycroft asked him with carefully risen eyebrows.

“Well, I think it's quite obvious.” replied the other one, who called himself Crowley, his look undecipherable behind his spectacle. “ Due to certain recent events, Mr Fell and I have decided we no longer wanted to work for you-or anyone else for that matter. Consider ourselves as retired.”

“ Both of you ?” he insisted. He let the _at the same time_ untold but clear.

“ I've known your mind sharpest.”Crowley answered with a smirk. Mycroft didn't bother to protest, choosing instead to focus his whole attention to the two individual. Something big was occurring and he was missing it. It was unnerving, to say the least -and worrying too, because only god knew what would happen if he couldn't rely on his brain anymore. He detailed their face, their clothes, their stance, without noticing anything unusual, before he realized the arms of their chairs were nearly touching, which meant one of them had scooted closer to the other one. They weren't touching exactly, but Mr Fell had this right hand next to Mr Crowley's forearm, as if to prevent him from doing anything stupid if needed. _Well,_ pondered Mycroft for himself, _Mr Crowley was right, I could have been quicker._

“I've known you more professional.” he finally chose to answer – his whole investigation had taken him ten second at most. Mr Crowley's smile faltered, but he didn't advert his gaze.

“I'm pretty sure it's none of your business.” he eventually replied. Just as predicted, Mr Fell touched him ever so slightly on the wrist as he spoke. Mycroft decided to acknowledge it as a cue he should deal with the reasonable one of the two of them.

“I'm aware I've got no way to pressure you, but don't you think it's best if we leave each other in cordial terms ?” he asked Mr Fell.

“I couldn't agree more with you Mr Holmes.” the blond one replied with an uneasy smile. “How could we help you ?”

“ Well, for one, you could tell me if the government should be expecting replacement, sooner or later.” He sure as hell didn't exactly know why they had to come here in the first place, but the PM thought it was important somehow, so he couldn't let them go without asking.

Mr Fell looked annoyed by this one, and he turned towards Mr Crowley before answering. His college- well lover, more exactly, and god how weird that sounded in Microsoft’s head, merely shrugged. Mr Fell seemed at loss for a moment, but he regained his composure easily enough.

“Speaking for Mr Crowley and myself, I think it's same to assume our, well, respective departments won't be needing your help for the time being, and vice versa. We've gone through some complications these past years which seriously questions our modus operandi.”

“And you expect me to explain this to my superior?” Mycroft frowned.

“We're confident in the fact that you'll be able to make up something if anybody asks, which is less than likely.” Mr Crowley answered with an infuriating grin.

“I'm not in the habit to lie to my superiors.” he replied blankly. To his surprise, they both rolled their eyes.

“Believe me, we know better.” Mr Fell replied, his voice lacking its usual warmth Maybe he was just as tired of this interview as Mycroft was. It was time to wrap it up, if the way Mr Crowley was drumming impatiently on his desk was anything to go by.

“Have you got anything else you would like to share ?” he inquired as politely as he could manage. “No, I think we're quite done. We don't want to impose on your time.” Mr Fell answered in an even tone. It was the most pleasant thing Mycroft had heard this past half-hour.

His guests both stood at the same time, extending their hands for him to shake it. No matter what the participants said to each other, diplomatic interviews always ended the same way.

“And where do you plan to retire, if I may be so curious?” he couldn't help but ask.

“Oh, we stay in the country. We've found a nice cottage somewhere in the south downs” Mr Fell replied with a genuine smile.

“Yes, we won't be very far in case you need us.” Mr Crowley added in a sarcastic tone. Mycroft choose to ignore this last part and merely nodded before saying them goodbye. He watched them disappearing in the hallway with narrowed eyes. At least one good thing had come out of this interview-he would never have to worry about these two again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've learnt the thing about the State Opening of Parliament in my English class. Pretty cool, right ?
> 
> Next-and last- chapter will be about John and Sherlock.
> 
> In case you were wondering, Aziraphale and Crowley hook up together sometime between this chapter and the previous one.


	5. John and Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I'm now the kind of person who edits her stuff after one year. Yey me.  
> No seriously I'm really sorry for the delay. If you've been patient enough to wait for it then you're a really dedicated reader. If you merely just stumbled across this then hurray for you! You've avoided yourself the hassle of reading a WIP.  
> Thanks to all the readers who've been here in the past months. It might not seem much, but your kudos alimented my faith in this work.
> 
> Regarding this chapter more specifically – the case used as a reference here is ACD's short story The Lion's Mane, except that in this story Sherlock and John are both here to investigate the matter because they were asked to. In term of chronology within BBC Canon you can imagine it as occurring at some point in a distant future or as a season 3 AU, it's really up to you.

* * *

 

When the doorbell rang that night, it was already ten pm and John couldn't help but look at his watch to check the hour. The mayor couldn't possibly be the one coming this late, and he had been their only visitor since their arrival, praying in every two days to thanks Sherlock for the great favor he did to their small village. John had yet to find a polite way to tell him that _not coming_ was the best way to express the detective his gratitude.

The doorbell rang a second time, and John sighed as he left his comfortable armchair by the fire. Sherlock was on the antique couch, seemingly deeply engrossed in his monograph about human decomposition. There were times it was impossible to tell whether hewas actually lost to the world or doing it on purpose in order to avoid chores he didn't want to do.

The good doctor didn't know who he was expecting to be standing behind the door, but it certainly wasn't these these two sharply dressed men. The first- a forty-ish blond with a tartan tie, for some reason- holding a plate full of scone and the second – younger, thirty maybe, sharp cheekbones and out of place sunglasses, fussing over his friend's collar. Neither of them seemed to have noticed his presence yet. He coughed pointedly.

“I'm sorry, but how can I help you ?”

The blond one had the decency to look embarrassed. He handed the scones plates to John as in a conciliatory gesture and babbled something about being neighbors and their will to bond over pastries.

His companion sighed, and John had the deep down certitude he was rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses.

“Thanks for the awkward introduction Aziraphale. Sorry for but the late hour, but we're in urgent need of salt and we thought maybe we could borrow you some. My friend here considered it rude to barge in empty handed, hence the scones.”

It was kind of weird, but to be honest, John had dealt with way weirder in his life – their mere presence here, in this isolated Sussex village was ludicrous. Besides, he could do with some scones. He took the plate and gestured them in.

“ Come in, I will give you some salt.” he paused one moment before adding, mainly for the blond's sake. “And maybe we could chit chat a little while were at it. My name is John by the way.”

The blond instantly brightened.

“I am Aziraphale. And my dear companion here is Crowley.” he answered with a smile.

The two walked in and John briefly wondered if he should add Sherlock to the general introduction

He realized quickly it wasn't necessary – the detective was already up and towering them, scrutinizing them with a focus he usually saved for dead bodies. When he eventually opened his mouth, his words were slow and measured, in a i-am-thinking-alound mode.

“I've seen you before, where have I seen you ?”

Realization suddenly dawned on the blond face – well on Aziraphale's face but it was hard for the name to come up naturally – and John waited patiently for the next line, probably something along the line of “ You're the detective, the one with the hat !”. But to his surprise, what came out of his guest's mouth was something else entirely.

“You look familiar too – are you by any chance related to Mycroft Holmes ?”

Sherlock immediately tensed, as he usually did at the mention of his brother.

“How come you know Mycroft ?”

“We used to work together.” Aziraphale replied good naturally. His friend glared at him, but this didn't seem to faze him.  “Stop looking at me this way, Crowley, we're out of business, remember ? We can cool it down a little when it comes to professional secrets.”

“If he is in any way like his brother, then I think it's safe to assume that _cool it down_ around him is not the best idea you've ever had angel.”

The use of the pet name – for it was a pet name, although pronounced in acidic tone – threw John aback. He suddenly looked at the interactions between the two men under a whole new light. He supposed he could have seen it sooner, but to be so honest he was so wary of the assumption made on he and Sherlock's behalf that he now tried not to be so quick to judge. Sherlock stayed impassive through the ordeal - he was probably still trying to figure out where he had seen them for the last time. It was confirmed when his eyes suddenly enlightened and he exclaimed in one breath “You are both retired secret agents. You used to spend a great deal at St James, feeding the duck, back in your days of glory. Based on what I've seen of your behavior, I can only assume you had to quit because you were deemed unfit for the job. ”

To John's surprise, his guests neither denied nor protested – instead, they stared at each other and smiled, looking as though they were trying to stifle a laugh.

“You've figured us inside out.” the one called Crowley eventually replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I see you possess your brother's talent.”

“Mycroft and I are nothing alike.” Sherlock immediately protested. John could tell from his tone he was displayed, due to both the ill-advised comparison and the unexpected reaction prompted by his big revelation. It was probably best to neutralise the situation quickly.

“We should head to the kitchen.” he offered his guests with a smile. To his relief, they followed him without further discussion.

The kitchen was decorated in a very hazardous taste – old-fashioned and ill-assorted, at the image of the rest of the cottage – but no one could deny it was a convenient and spacious room. The three of them were able to sit around the old-oak table in order to eat some scones. There was still warm water in the kettle from earlier which meant John could serve them some tea as well. If it weren't for the presence of his best friend slash detective genius hovering suspiciously in the doorway, he could have believed himself the perfect host.

“So, what brings you in this secluded area ?” asked Aziraphale once he was settled with his cuppa, looking perfect at ease, even under the scrutiny of Sherlock. His companion on his other hand seemed less comfortable – if the fact he still had his sunglasses on was anything to go by. “I don't want to pry, but you don't seem the rural type at all.”

John nodded with a smile. It looked like these two had really no idea of who they were. Curious, but if they had lived in this damp place for a long time, anything was possible.

“You're right, we are Londoners through and through. We came here because the mayor of your village required Sherlock's assistance.” he explained. Then, because the reason they were here wasn't especially confidential – since it was the only think worth nothing that had happened here for god knows how long, it had been the talk of the neighborhood for weeks now – he precised. “It has to do with the case of mysterious drownings at the beach, I suppose you have heard of that.”

“Yes, actually we have. Dreadful indeed.” Aziraphale answered, his words betraying a sincere anguish. His companion on the other hand seemed less concerned.

“I am sure it will eventually turn out to be nothing but mere rotten luck – somehow, I can't imagine any the elderly living here as a Machiavellian serial killer.”

“You of all people should beware of appearances. Remember Adam.” Aziraphale shot back, which had Crowley huffing. Watching these two interact was like barging into the middle of play without no context whatsoever, and John wondered if this was what he and Sherlock looked like sometimes. He was brought back to reality by Crowley suddenly calling out to his flatmate.

“So, you're a detective of some sort, right ? I remember thinking that the abilities of Mycroft could prove useful for investigating matters. Then again, it's quite hard to imagine your brother doing anything other but sitting behind a desk and looking respectable.”

Sherlock relaxed instantly at that – he chuckled and walked into the kitchen, helping himself some tea.

“I couldn't agree with you more. Mycroft loves his job because it gives him great deal of influence without the hassle of having to stretch his legs.”

The detective had put on his socially-appropriate-face – according to him anyway - , which involved a great deal of smiling and pointless comments. John couldn't help but roll his eyes.

“So, why did _you_ choose to retire to the country ? I suppose that for retired secret agents it must be pretty boring. Not to mention the average local is twice your age or so.”

“Yeah we don't socialize much.” Aziraphale admitted with a grimace. “People here tend to be suspicious of newcomers. It's a shame. I think they should get used to our presence in the next decade.”

“But the remoteness was the precise reason we came here in the first place.” Crowley piped in.“Sure, we miss London from time to time, but after a while it was good to escape the crowd and the noise. And, well, we wanted a place where it would be difficult for our former employees to reach us. I'm sure you can understand that.”

The last part was dressed directly as Sherlock. Maybe it was paranoia, but John couldn't help but see it as a gentle warning not to dig any further. The detective nodded amiably.

“Well your house must certainly in a _very_ remote place. I am pretty sure I didn't stumble across it when I was roaming the shore to gather information about the drownings.”

“Our cottage is two miles from yours, and you are our closest neighbors. ” Arizaphale supplied with a smile. “Which might explain why we don't get many visitors. But you should feel free to ask us now, since we're here.”

 _Touché_ . If Sherlock was annoyed at having been caught he didn't show it, instead complying easily and beginning his little interrogation. The questions he asked were familiar by now, so John quickly lost interest, choosing instead to focus on the curious pair sat in front of him. He tried, as he often did, to do what his best friend did all the time – observe and deduce. The closeness and familiarity between the two was obvious – Aziraphale's hand gently brushing Crowley's wrist, the way their hips were almost touching – but since he already knew they were a couple, it didn't really count. He focused on something else – their clothes, their stance – but was unable to pick up anything of importance. They _looked_ happy – Aziraphale especially, radiating a small glow of contentment, but even Crowley seemed relaxed now – but it could be an elaborate act for all John knew. Sure, the way they were dressed was peculiar, to say the least- who wore a suit to visit theirneighbors ? - but John chose to read it more as a sign of their social awkwardness rather than as a tentative to intimidate them. As for the sunglasses, it was a mystery. Maybe Crowley had a problem with his eyesor something.

He was at this point in his observations when he realized Sherlock was staring at him pointedly.

“I'm sorry, you were saying ?”

“Our guests were wondering where the salt is.” his flatmate replied with a grin which indicated he knew exactly what he had been trying to do. John quickly stood up and retrieved the salt from a nearby shelf.

“Here.” he exclaimed as he handed it to Aziraphale, which smiled in return. “I suppose you will be on your way, then ?”

“Well, it's getting rather late.” Crowley answered. “We wouldn't want to overstay your welcome.”

John couldn't quite tell if it was sarcastic or not but he protested nevertheless- as he was supposed to do,- exclaiming it was no problem at all as he was leading them outside the kitchen.

“Don't hesitate to pop by if you need anything again.” he told them once they were at the front door, ignoring the glare Sherlock shot him. “We might be here for another week or so.”

“Duly noted.” Aziraphale agreed warmly as he put a foot outside, looping the arm that wasn't currently occupied with the now empty scones plate through Crowley's own. They said goodbye one last time and then they were gone, walking back to their mysterious cottage.

John stayed a moment to watch the two silhouettes disappear into the night.

“I suppose you didn't pay attention to the questions I was asking them ?” Sherlock asked him, sounding vexed, when he eventually closed the door and stepped back into the hallway.

“Mmh, not really no. Why, did I miss anything important ?”

“No. They didn't see anything, and unlike many of their neighbors they have no likely culprit in mind. I suppose it's because they haven't been here long enough to have age-old enemies. I can't say I was very surprised.”

“You were pretty intent on interrogating them though.” John couldn't help but point out. The slight crease between the detective's eyebrows proved him right.

“I was intrigued by them – have been since I first saw them at St James actually.” he eventually admitted. “Whenever I see them, I have got the feeling I'm missing something big.”

There was a moment of silence after that, and John thought of Mycroft, who would probably provide them any information they needed on this. What he eventually said was something else entirely.

“I envy them.” he blurted out, before stopping short and biting his tongue. He hadn't actually planned to say that aloud. Sherlock stared at him curiously.

“Which part ? The retirement at forty five or the eloping with a male partner in a cottage out of nowhere ? ”

So he had picked on that too. There were days John felt silly for continuing to assume Sherlock was oblivious when it came to romantic relationships. The worst was that it was indeed what he had been thinking about when he had made his statement, although not quite consciously. He didn't know what gave him the courage to go on. Maybe it was the quietness of the night – the feeling that whatever he said here would stay between the two of them and never brought up again. Maybe it was the whiskey he had before the arrival of their visitors suddenly kicking in. In any case, it made the trick.

“The last part.” he eventually whispered, looking at Sherlock from the corner if his eyes. He hoped he wasn't imagining the slight flush coloring his best friend's face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have started Supernatural fairly recently, which means a salt reference was unavoidable at that point. Sorry....


End file.
